“I shall keep you decently by-and-by, Caroline.”
“And then she’s always going on about what you owe her. I daren’t go up to London any more, she leads me such a life.”
“Tell her I’ll pay her by-and-by,” Alfred Wimple said.
“I’m sure if it wasn’t for grandmother being at Liphook, I don’t know what I’d do. Sometimes I think I’d better get a place of some sort—then I’d be able to help you.”
“But your grandmother doesn’t lead you a life, Caroline, does she?”
“Well, you see, it was she made us get married, so she can’t well, and she has kept mother quiet on that account; but couldn’t you come to us again, Alfred? I don’t believe grandmother would mind. She thinks you are very wise to stay with your aunt if you’re going to get her money, and often tells me I am impatient, but I can’t bear being parted like this.”
“And I can’t bear it either”—something that was equivalent to tenderness came into his voice. Aunt Anne drew her breath as she heard it. “You know I am fond of you; I never was fond of anybody else.”
“Mother says when you first had her rooms in the Gray’s Inn Road, there was some girl you used to go out with?”
“She was fond of me,” he said; “I didn’t care about her.”
“My goodness! look at the rain,” said the woman, as it came pouring down; “we must stay here till it’s over a bit. Alfred, you are sure you are as fond of me as ever?”